


the cruel irony of sunshine

by TheFlirtMeister



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Life Ruining Arguments, M/M, Poor Life Choices, Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-07-24 01:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20017825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlirtMeister/pseuds/TheFlirtMeister
Summary: That’s when Richie spots him.Leaning against one of the ridiculous fake palm trees, clearly not listening to the conversation he’s caught in, is Bill Denbrough in the fucking flesh. Richie could have picked him out from a hundred yards away, with his floppy hair, perfect eyebrows and jawline that could cut crystal.Richie hates everything about him.





	the cruel irony of sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2019 it reverse big bang!
> 
> thank you to kelsey for reading my first drafts, mads for being the best beta i've ever had, and whatidoisxsecret for producing a beautiful piece of art <33

Richie Tozier is currently drowning at the bottom of a pool.

The world is a blue haze, everything muffled to the point of silence, the shadows of people moving above him. He wishes that he could stop time, to be held in this state forever, not quite floating, not quite sinking. Just the burning in his lungs, and the chlorine in his eyes, and the clenching of his stomach.

The water above him splits with a splash, an explosion of bubbles and movement. Richie blinks, eyes stinging, and stares up at the figure swimmingly determinedly towards him. Their face is twisted in a grimace, hands stretched out in front of them, clothes soaked through.

Bill Denbrough.

“ _Motherfucker_.” Richie thinks to himself, before Bill grabs hold of him by the front of his shirt and drags him up to the surface.

*

Whenever Richie drives on the 101 Hollywood freeway there’s always a nagging feeling in the back of his skull that this is actually hell. It’s impossible that this stretch of road was designed for innocent mortals, no, it had clearly been designed by the devil to torment sinners who committed grand theft auto or threw trash from their car whilst driving.

Richie leans his chin on the steering wheel and gazes out mournfully at the complete gridlock ahead. It had been stupid to take this route, but he’d thought that luck would have been on his side, and the ride would have been moderately bearable. But no, traffic was at a standstill, the sun was beating down, and Richie was going to be late to a Very Important Party.

Truth be told, Richie still couldn’t believe he’d been invited to this party. Yes, he was a successful comedian who was on track to having his own television show, and had once been complimented by Lin Manuel Miranda on twitter, but people like Richie didn’t just get invited to parties like _this_. This was Big Time.

It was being held by Cade Archer, who was mostly famous for being famous. Richie had met him a few months ago at a charity event that rich people attended to feel good about themselves. And while Richie was there as a hired comic, Cade was there to get money from people’s pockets. They’d hit it off straight away, and by the end of the night, had drunkenly exchanged numbers. Now, apparently, Cade has seen fit to keep inviting Richie to things, like parties way out of his league.

Maybe it was Richie’s personality, or maybe it was the fact that girls followed Richie wherever he went. Either way, Richie’s on his way to a party where the drinks would be free, the food would be tiny, and the women would be pretty. A good time was on the horizon, if he could only get there.

Richie sighs and, as he was already brimming with good luck, a bug flew directly into his mouth. The man reared back and hastily spat it out onto his lap, scowling to himself. This was one of the reasons why he hated having an open top car, even if it looked cool. Bugs constantly decided to dive bomb his face, and there was no way to feel the air conditioning, so Richie felt like he was burning to death on most occasions. The car was kind of a piece of shit, but it impressed most people, so he held onto it.

Richie kept meaning to take it to Eddie to look at, but he never could quite bring himself to do it. Eddie was probably busy and had better things to do.

Richie’s phone suddenly starts blaring out from the cupholder and he jumps about a foot in the air, knocking the phone into the footwell. It lands face up on the floor, the call screen reading BEV, with a photograph of Bev and her many chins.

Richie bent down, knocking his head on the steering wheel, and rescued his phone from the floor.

“Yello?” He answers. “Tozier Sperm Bank, you wank, we bank?”

“Richie that is disgusting.” Bev says, and he can practically hear her wrinkling her nose on the other end. “What if I’d had you on loud speaker?”

“Then you’d just have to deal with it.” Richie says smugly and stretches out in his seat. “What’s up?”

“I was just checking to see that none of your ex-girlfriend’s had killed you yet.” Bev says, “Still holding up?”

“At the current moment of speaking.” Richie says, “Oh wait, who’s that coming towards me with an axe and a bottle of poison? It’s Jennifer.”

“An axe, _and_ poison?” Bev asks. “You’re a hard man to murder Tozier.”

“I’m Michael Myers baby.” Richie says. “Impossible to kill.”

“If only you wore a mask to cover your face as well.”

“Ha ha.” Richie says sarcastically. “I’m guessing you didn’t just call me to insult me?”

“It is my favourite thing to do.” Bev says, “But no. I needed to talk to somebody who isn’t into fashion, because I think my brain is about to explode.”

Richie looks down at the blue and white pinstriped shirt he’s wearing, accented with big red lobsters. “I’m into fashion.”

“Oh _honey_ ,” Bev says, “I can’t even stand next to you in public without risking my reputation.”

“How’s the show going anyway?” Richie asks, distracting Bev from her outfit critiques.

“Ugh.” Bev groans. “Stressful. I think I’ve swallowed a bobby pin from how many alterations I’ve had to fix. I can’t believe my manufacturers would allow garments to leave the factory when they look so dreadful.”

“It’s the capitalist society we live in.” Richie says.

“Shut up.” Bev says. “You know all my workers are from Maine. I’m eco-friendly, remember?”

“Yeah yeah.” Richie waves a hand. “Beverly Marsh saves the turtles and looks hot doing it.”

“I look like a mess at the moment.” Bev says despairingly. “I think my hair is falling out.”

“You and Eddie can match then.”

“Richie!” Bev says, but she was laughing. “You’re so bad.”

Richie grins, his tongue poking through his teeth. “You love it.”

“His hair isn’t even that bad.” Bev says, but then pulled the phone away from her ear. “Hey, hey! That make up doesn’t go with that outfit. I want androgyny, not Kardashian. Wipe it off and start again.”

“I think you just burst my eardrum.” Richie winces, sticking his finger into his ear.

“You’re so dramatic.” Bev says, in her normal voice. “I was barely shouting.”

“I think people across the country heard you.” Richie tells her. “Anyway, aren’t you always the one going on about make up not having a gender? How we need to break out of the chains of toxic masculinity? I’m pretty sure you made a power point presentation one time and forced us to sit through it.”

“She was wearing pink glittery eyeshadow.” Bev grumbles. “That doesn’t suit my vision.”

“Oh, you have a _vision_?” Richie teases, and Bev groans.

“God, I shouldn’t tell you anything. You just take the piss out of me.”

Richie opens his mouth to retort when a car a few rows behind presses down on their horn, hard. Richie winces as the sound echoes across the traffic, with several cars joining in as protest.

“What was that?” Bev asks.

“It’s called a car horn.” Richie says slowly. “It’s used to express displeasure whilst driving-“

“Fuck off Richie.” Bev says. “Where are you?”

“On the freeway.”

“You’re on the phone whilst driving?!” Bev exclaims.

“Calm down!” Richie says. “I’m stuck in traffic; we haven’t moved in half an hour. I’m not going to run over a little old lady.”

“You are ridiculous.” Bev says. “What if a cop saw you?”

“Then I’d pull the I’m-Richie-Tozier card.” Richie says, “Or the I-Know-Beverly-March ticket.”

“You’re not going to get out of a traffic violation by telling the cop you know a random fashion designer.” Bev says, probably rolling her eyes.

“You’re not a random fashion designer.” Richie places a hand on his heart even though she can’t see him. “You’re up there with Coco Chanel, Vivienne Westwood, Vera Wang-“

“Coco Chanel was a Nazi, and Vivienne Westwood hates the poor.” Bev interrupts. “You flatter me with your comparisons.”

“The sentiment was there.” Richie argues, and yawns. “I’m so fucking tired.”

“How do you think I feel?” Bev asks, and then softens. “How’s it going?”

“Good. Fine.” Richie says. “We’ve had to arrange extra tour dates as my shows are selling out. Netflix want to film me.”

“Richie that’s wonderful.” Bev says sounding like she truly means it. “I’m so proud.”

“They want me to do something worldwide.” Richie says. “Go to Europe or whatever.”

“Seriously? That’s a big fucking deal.”

“Thanks.” Richie says, “It’s just.... exhausting.”

“You should go home and get some sleep.”

Richie snorts. “Sleep? In California? No chance. Anyway, I’m going to a party tonight. Private bar and waiters in tails, the whole shebang.”

“Fancy.” Bev says. “Whose hosting?”

“Cade.” Richie says, and notices traffic was finally moving ahead. “Bev, I’ve gotta go, I need to start driving this rust bucket.”

“Cade.” Bev repeats slowly, chewing the word over. “Hey Richie, wait-“

“Can’t!” Richie says cheerfully, “Unless you want me to get arrested? I bet you just want to see me in handcuffs you saucy minx-”

“No Richie, I really don’t, but-”

“See you in a bit!” Richie says, finger hovering over the end call button.

“Wait, I think you-know-who is going to that party!-“ Bev calls out, but Richie ended the call, throwing the phone back into the footwell.

He puts his foot down on the gas and feels the breeze go through his mop of curls as the car starts to move. The sky’s slowly turning a brilliant orange, like someone overlaid the Kelvin filter across it. Richie frowns as he thought over Bev’s words, pulling over into the left-hand lane so he can exit the fucking freeway. _You-know-who_?

“Maybe Bowers will be there.” He thinks to himself, and laughs out loud at the thought of it.

...

When Richie pulls up outside Cade’s house, he almost drives the car into the kerb in shock at how _nice_ it is. The building is made up of white brick, so it shines underneath the now dying sunlight, with huge windows framed with black. Several walls are in fact made of slightly frosted glass, so Richie can just see the outlines of people moving behind. He wonders how this house must look to an outsider, being able to see the party but never allowed to join.

A valet steps out from the entrance, wearing a white shirt and red jacket with gold stitching. He’s young, clean shaven, and carefully holding a clipboard in his hands. The driver side door of Richie’s car doesn’t work, so Richie clambers out over the top, jumping down onto the sidewalk below.

“Tah dah!” He announces, flinging his arms up into the air. “Good trick, huh?”

The valet blinks at him, and then nods. “Yes Sir.”

“I’m Richie Tozier-” Richie starts to say, but the valet interrupts.

“Yes, I know.” He says, and then looks mortified. “I mean, I know who you are, Sir. I’ve seen you on tv.”

“Oh.” Richie says, and then grins. “What did you think?”

“You were good.” the valet said. “Really good. I’ve, uh, I’ve ticked your name off the guest list, and I can take your keys and park the car for you?”

“Excellent.” Richie says, holding out his car keys.

Truth be told, they’re more keychain than keys, with lots of little charms attached. There’s a tiny flashlight from Stan, a fuzzy sheep that had lost most of its wool from Mike, and a stress ball heart from Ben. There’s also a gap where Richie had pulled some of them off in an unusual fit of anger, but he tries not to think about it.

“Thank you, Sir.” The valet takes the keys from him. “How should I, uh, enter the car?”

“The passenger door works.” Richie says. “You just have to sort of... scoot across.”

“Noted.” he said, nodding once, before adding, “Enjoy the party, Mr. Tozier.”

“Thanks.” Richie said, watching the valet walk around to the other side of the car.

There’s a cough from the entrance, and Richie turns to see another valet has arrived. They must have been on a beck-and-call system, and Richie was impressed. Cade has clearly thought everything out.

There’s no security, so Richie lets himself inside, pushing open the panelled door. He doesn’t know if he should take his shoes off or not, so he keeps them on, looking about for the people he’d seen moving about behind the glass.

The ground floor seems to be empty, quiet apart from the faint sound of music from upstairs. It’s not a home that feels lived in, in fact, Richie feels like he’s wandering around Ikea. Here’s an ugly sofa the price of a plane ticket, here’s a lamp that cost more than Richie’s rent, oh look, a television that covers the entire wall.

Richie sits down on an armchair shaped like a vagina and stretches out. He could do a whole routine about this party, making fun of himself, drop in a few celebrity cameos, make himself sound like a complete dick-

Richie sighs and pushes himself up from the chair. “Beep Beep Richie.”

His eye was caught suddenly by a vase on the mantlepiece, one shaped like a bucket with gold curling around the rim. Bizarrely, and out of nowhere, Richie was reminded of an identical vase the Denbrough’s had owned. Walking over to it, he gently ran the tips of his fingers across its surface. It had a weird knobbly texture, much like the one he was currently remembering.

*

They’d broken it, him and Bill, when they were kids.

Richie was staying over at the Denbrough house, as he always did, when his parents worked all day and didn’t trust him alone in the house. Richie had a problem with setting the microwave on fire.

Richie’s pretty sure that Bill’s parents didn’t trust Richie alone in their house either. They tolerated it though, because Bill was there, and Bill was good at keeping Richie out of trouble. Bill could also use the kitchen without exploding things.

It had been raining, the kind of rain that soaks you down to the bone and floods the pathways. At first they’d run around in the garden with Georgie, picking up snails and slugs off the pathways and throwing them at each other. Then the weather had got too much to bear, and they’d had to rush inside, Richie carrying Georgie who shrieked with delight at being picked up.

Richie can’t remember which one of them came up with the idea of indoor football, but it was probably himself. Richie came up with stupid ideas and Bill normally told him off for them.

Bill must have been slipping that day though, because he went along with Richie’s wild scheme of playing football with one of Georgie’s soccer balls. For a few minutes, it had been fun, the two boys dashing back and forth in the living room, Georgie watching them excitedly, making far too much noise over the downpour of rain outside, and then-

Richie had punted the ball at the mantlepiece, and one of Sharon Denbrough’s vases had come crashing to the floor.

That moment felt suspended in time, Richie watching the vase topple to the floor, Bill’s shocked expression, the fear rising in Richie’s stomach. The vase had smashed into three pieces, and Georgie, who had been watching on the couch, had burst into tears at the chaos of it all.

“H-Holy shit.” Bill said.

“Oh my god.” Richie knelt on the floor and inspected the broken pieces. “Your mom is going to _kill_ me.”

He looked up at Bill who had a shocked expression on his face. Richie scrambled upright to his feet and grabbed Bill’s arm.

“Bill, I’m so sorry-“ He burst out, “I didn’t mean to, I can pay for it, I have pocket money, please don’t be mad-“

“I’m not mad!” Bill placed his hands over Richie’s own. “Richie, it’s okay, I’m not mad. It was an accident.”

“Nobody will believe that.”

Bill chewed on his bottom lip. “My mom will believe me if I said I did it.”

“She’ll blame me the moment you tell her.”

Richie was blamed for most things going wrong. He was blamed for the time that Eddie got a cold in the middle of summer, when Beverly cut all her hair off, when Mike accidentally left the sheep pen open and the flock gleefully escaped. The parents of the Loser’s club seemed to have it in for him.

“If you’re not here, she can’t blame you.” Bill looked at Richie. “I’ll just tell her you never came over in the first place.”

“Are you sure?” Richie asked, and Bill nodded.

“I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

Bill turned to Georgie and glared at him. “Richie was never here, right?”

Georgie blinked with watery eyes. “He was never here.”

“Good.” Bill said, satisfied. “You have h-house keys?”

“Yes.” Richie reached around his neck, pulling out the grubby lanyard he kept his front door key on. “Here.”

“Cool.” Bill said. “I’ll start thinking of a g-good explanation of how I broke the vase.”

“No indoor football?” Richie said

“Definitely n-not.” Bill said. “I’ll say I s-slammed the door too hard and it fell off the mantlepiece.”

“I thought you were meant to be a creative writer.” Richie said. “That’s a bad excuse.”

“You dick.” Bill said, but laughed.

*

Nobody walked Richie to the door, so he saw himself out. His shirt instantly plastered itself to his skin and Richie shivered, wrapping his arms around himself as he started to walk. His shoes, cheap already, started to let the water in, and Richie could feel his socks squelching with every step.

When he was a grown up, he decided, he was going to buy the most expensive pairs of shoes possible, and wear them every day. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about getting gangrene in his feet and having to have them chopped off.

“Hey, wait up!”

Richie turned around to see Bill chasing after him, holding an umbrella above his head like a sword.

“Are you planning to stab me with that?!” Richie asked as Bill caught up with him.

“Yeah, I’m going to turn you into a s-s-shish kebab.” Bill said and opened the umbrella. “It’s for you, d-dummy.”

“I don’t need an umbrella.” Richie said. “I like being wet.”

Bill elbowed him in the ribs as Richie cackled.

“You are disgusting.” Bill said and held the umbrella over Richie’s head. “You can’t even s-see out of your glasses.”

“I can never see out of them anyway.” Richie said, but took hold of the handle. “Your mom’s going to be really mad, huh?”

“Yeah, but she’ll get over it.” Bill said. “Hopefully.”

“I want to keep coming to your house.” Richie said truthfully.

Bill said and squeezed Richie’s arm. “You’ll be able to. Be s-safe walking home, okay?”

“I’ll avoid all the sewers.” Richie promised, and Bill laughed.

“Good.” He said. “See you Richie.”

“See ya Billiam.”

Richie watched Bill run back to his house, pretending not to notice the rain flattening his shirt to his skin. He eyed the shifting movement of Bill’s shoulder blades for a moment more before turning away and setting off home.

*

Richie shivers in the sweltering Californian heat. He still remembers that long walk home, trying to fit his front door key into the lock with cold, trembling fingers. He’d gone straight to bed, coughing and sneezing all the way, socks squelching on the wooden floors.

It’s weird to think of a time where Richie couldn’t call a taxi to take him home, and when Bill was his friend.

Richie wanders aimlessly out of the living room, away from the stupid vase, before finding himself in a corridor. There’s a heavy looking door that was firmly shut, so, being the nosy person Richie is, he decides to push it open to see what was inside.

Laying out upon table tops are rows and rows of canapes, with a few people in white uniforms furiously moving about, buttering small crackers and slicing up various vegetables. Richie pauses in the doorway, admiring the work, before one of them glances up and notices him.

“You’re not allowed to be in here.” She says.

“The door wasn’t locked.” Richie says stupidly. “I didn’t know this was the kitchen.”

“Well it is.” She says sarcastically. “So, bugger off.”

Richie stands in the doorway, watching the caterers mechanically move around the room. The lady is still looking at him, holding a sharp knife in her hand.

“You’re not allowed to eat anything.” She tells him. “This is for the guests.”

“I am a guest.”

“Could have fooled me.” She sniffs.

Richie looks down at his lobster shirt again. Maybe it _had_ been a bad idea to wear crustaceans to a fancy party.

“Are you deaf?” The woman waves the knife at him. “The party’s upstairs. Fuck off.”

“Sex and travel.” Richie says suddenly.

“Huh?”

“Sex and travel.” Richie repeats, and then grins. “Fuck off.”

He escapes before she can yell at him some more, jumping up the steps of the grand staircase that are fitted with blue lights so each step lights up. He can hear the music louder now, making out a band he’d promised Stan tickets to. He wonders if Stan still remembers, as he reaches the first floor.

On this floor of the building, people are spilling out from every room, clutching champagne flutes and tiny canapes. The buzzing with conversations and networking, and Richie drinks it all in from the top of the stairs, watching everyone hungrily.

Here are celebrities; actors and actresses, musicians, artists, stand-up comedians and talk show hosts, all dressed up and mingling with one another. Richie spots three Oscar winners in a single moment, admiring the way they hold themselves, hands over their stomachs as they spoke.

Richie steps out onto the landing and into the fray, rescuing a glass of champagne from a waiter. It fizzes on his tongue when he sips it, which just entices him further, and in a few seconds, Richie has drained his entire glass. He takes another from the waiter and drinks that too, before placing both on the tray table, and stifling a hiccup.

He wonders where Cade was in this collision of a house. Is he chatting up an Oscar nominee on this floor, or is he in the pool with a Victoria Secret’s model? Never mind, Richie isn’t here to see him. He’s here to have a good time.

“Hey,” A girl has sidled up to him, holding a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. She’s wearing a red dress that matches the packaging, exposing one pale shoulder. “You got a light?”

“Yeah, but I only give it out to cute girls.” Richie says, digging into his pocket.

“It’s lucky I’m cute then.” The girl raises her eyebrow and Richie laughs.

“It sure is.” He pulls out his lighter, rubbing his thumb across the faded text that read DERRY. “Pucker up.”

The girl places the cigarette in her mouth and leans in so Richie could light it. She looks up at him through her eyelashes as she takes her first puff, and then blows out the smoke towards him. Richie resists the urge to cough.

The girl wordlessly offers Richie the Marlboro’s. Richie takes one, and lights it, leaning against the wall to take a drag. They stand in silence for a moment before the girl spoke.

“You’re Richie Tozier.” She says, as if accusing him of something.

“The very same.” Richie replies. “And you are?”

“Alice.” The girl says. “I was in the tv show, Sour Shift.”

Richie has never seen it.

“Huh.” He says, “I thought you looked familiar.”

Alice smiles. Her lipstick’s a dusty pink, and she smells faintly of strawberries. Richie wonders what it would be like to kiss her.

“I saw you, at Big Lost Weekend.” Alice says. “You were funny.”

“I hope so.” Richie says. “Otherwise I’d be a shitty comedian.”

Alice laughs. “I liked the bit about your friend, the one who wore shorts? About him coming out and none of you being surprised? That was good. What did you call him, a neurotic hypochondriac homosexual?”

Richie smiles. He hasn’t told Eddie that he’s a starring role in Richie’s routine. He doesn’t think it would go down well.

“Thanks.” Richie says. “He’s exactly how I described.”

“Really?”

“Yep. All my stories are true.”

“Even the ones about your sex life?” Alice asks.

“Especially those.” Richie says, and winks.

Referencing his own sex life in his performances was the farthest thing from new to Richie. Failed hook-ups, girls who had walked out before he’d come, kinks getting out of hand, none of it was off limits. He controlled the stories as he told them, making them sound less sad than they were. When Richie got up on stage, he didn’t feel the bitterness these encounters had left him with, he felt invincible.

There’s one story he’s never tried to retell, though. Two boys, in a bedroom, on top of each other with split lips and bleeding noses.

“There are so many perverts here.” Alice says, breaking Richie out of his thoughts.

“Oh yeah?” He asks and made his glasses wiggle by playing with the arms. “How can you tell?”

“They keep coming up to me and asking me if I want to swim in the pool.” Alice sighs. “And when I tell them I haven’t brought my bathing suit; they say it doesn’t matter.”

“There’s a swimming pool here?” Richie asks.

“On the top floor.” Alice gestures with her hand that’s holding the cigarette. “Don’t even _ask_ me how much it must have cost.”

“I guess Cade could really splash out the cash.” Richie says, and grins.

Alice looks at him blankly. Richie waves his hands about.

“You know, splash? Money? Swimming pools? Do you get it?”

Alice takes a drag of her cigarette. “I got it.”

“Maybe it was funnier in my head.” Richie says, and Alice shrugs.

“I like your old stuff better.”

“Thanks.” Richie says sarcastically.

“It’s hot in here.” Alice says, ignoring Richie’s tone. “Come up to the roof with me?”

She phrases it as if it was a question, but Richie knows there’s only one answer. He pushes himself off the wall.

“Of course.” He says and follows her.

...

The rooftop view was incredible.

Richie’s mouth dropped open as soon as they stepped out onto the floor. The Californian skyline was turning to vibrant oranges and pinks, the day’s remnant sunlight glinting from office blocks and apartment buildings battling for dominance. Richie felt like a god admiring his creation.

The pool takes up half the floor space, illuminated an electric blue with underwater lights. There aren’t any people swimming in it, but a few girls have kicked off their high heels and are sitting on their edge, dipping their toes in. As more alcohol is consumed over the course of the night, there’s sure to be a few more people joining them.

Alice yawns, and rests against one of the fake palm trees that are planted in oversized grey pots. “I bet I could see my house from here.”

“You have a house?” Richie asks. There are railings to prevent people falling off to their death, and Richie fights the urge to sit on top of it.

“My Stepmother has a house.” Alice corrects. “But I caught her fucking her yoga instructor so she’s letting me live there rent free.”

“Nice use of blackmail.” Richie says, just as a waiter wanders up to them.

“More champagne?” They proffer a tray towards the two of them.

“Cheers.” Richie takes a glass, and looks out towards the rest of the guests, trying to see if he can spot the host in the mess of everyone. Cade promised to hook him up with some good stuff, and Richie was itching to escape from his own body.

That’s when Richie spots him.

Leaning against one of the ridiculous fake palm trees, clearly not listening to the conversation he’s caught in, is Bill Denbrough in the fucking flesh. Richie could have picked him out from a hundred yards away, with his floppy hair, perfect eyebrows and jawline that could cut crystal.

Richie hates everything about him.

“Fuck my life.” Richie says loudly, which causes several glances in his direction. “This can’t be happening.”

“What?” Alice asks, but Richie’s already pushing himself away from her, abandoning his glass of champagne.

He doesn’t know what his plan is, if he’s going to confront Bill, or punch him, or run straight back down the stairs like a coward. His feet are moving on their own accord, and it takes a second for his brain to catch up with them before he finds himself pushing his way through the crowd.

Bill looks up from staring at the ground and blinks with long eyelashes. “Richie.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Richie asks. He’s breathing heavily.

“I was invited.” Bill replies, and then raises an eyebrow. “Were you?”

“Of course I was!” Richie says, far too loudly. People are staring. “I didn’t just break my way in.”

“You’re good at breaking things.” Bill says coolly, and Richie shoves his finger into Bill’s face.

“ _Fuck_ you.”

Bill pulls himself up to his full height, imposing without being big, and Richie tries to do the same thing, but it's no use, he's just lanky and an idiot and-

"Hey, hey!" Cade has swanned into the group, two pairs of ridiculous sunglasses on his face, one perched on his nose, the other on his head. Richie wonders if he knows he's wearing both.

"Richie, stop assaulting my guests." Cade says, as if Bill is his best friend and Richie is spare change.

"I didn't assault him." Richie says, dropping his hands to his sides.

"For once." Bill mutters. Richie wants to kick him.

"You two know each other?" Cade asks.

"As kids." Bill says, and Cade laughs, as if delighted by this new scenario.

"Oh, perfect! Which one of you beat the other up?"

"What?" Richie snaps, irritated. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, one of you has to be the childhood bully, right?" Cade studies them both. "My money's on Richie. He's got that look about him. Gamer kid who thinks he's oppressed for not washing and girls finding him creepy."

"Oh, fuck you," Richie says, stepping away. "You're a dick, you know that?"

"Jesus, is this what you're like when you're sober?" Cade asks. "Remind me never to fund your AA treatment."

Bill gives a bark of laughter that grates on Richie’s nerves. "Of course you're taking drugs. How long did it take once you moved here, five minutes?"

"Oh, like you never smoked weed in my fucking bedroom." Richie retorts, turning back to him. "You're so pious Bill, it makes me sick."

"At least I'm not the one making a fool of myself at a party." Bill says. "You seem to be making a habit of it."

Richie bristles. Stanley’s sixteenth birthday is an event that nobody talks about because of how terrible Richie’s behaviour was. 

Cade is still watching them, grinning. Several other people are as well, hiding smiles behind their hands as they watch two grown men have a spat.

"You shouldn't have come." Richie says.

"I didn't even know you were going to be here!" Bill rolls his eyes, and then looks at Richie's shirt. "And by the look if it, neither did you. You can't even dress yourself properly."

"It's an expensive shirt!" Richie says loudly, "Ben said it was okay!"

"You still talk to the other losers?" Bill asks. "I thought you would have dropped them by now, like you drop everyone else."

"I don't forget my friends." Richie says. "I have the decency to fucking talk to people."

"You don't have friends." Bill says. "You only keep in contact with them because you want to fuck them-"

Richie lunges forward but Cade grabs hold of him, dragging Richie backwards. He feels his feet leave the floor for a second, and fights in the air, trying to catch himself.

"Walk it off." Cade says, dropping Richie onto solid ground

"He-" Richie starts, already starting to protest but Cade leans in close. Richie can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Walk it off." He snarls.

Richie turns on his heel, elbowing his way through the gathered crowd, towards the exit. He can feel his face tightening, the familiar prickle in his eyes, as he crashes through the door that leads to the staircase.

He runs down the stairs, two at a time, because if he stops in public, he's going to do something stupid. Like run all the way back up there and strangle the two of them. Cade with his ridiculous ‘quirky’ sunglasses and Bill with his stupid remarks.

There are gender neutral toilets on the floor below, and Richie barges his way into them. An actor that Richie just about recognises is washing his hands at the sinks, looking up at the sudden commotion that Richie's making. Richie glares at them, and throws himself into one of the empty stalls, locking the door behind him.

"Are you okay?" they ask.

"Fine." Richie spits, and it echoes around the room.

"Okay then." they say, drawing out the ‘ _oh’_ , and Richie hears them leave the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind them.

Richie sits down hard on the closed toilet seat, heart pounding in his chest. When he shuts his eyes, he can see Bill's satisfied little smirk, pleased at getting a rise out of Richie. He clenches his hands into fists, feeling his nails dig into the skin.

Richie thinks he might just be in love with Bill Denbrough.

He hates himself for it.

*

The summer of Stanley’s 16th birthday was unnaturally hot, and the Losers club had spent most of their time at the quarry sunbathing and chasing younger kids off their patch. Richie always burnt the first week of July, though Eddie was always there to slather him in after sun and rant to him about skin cancer and premature aging all the while. Richie found he never minded it.

"I have bad news." Stanley announced, the day before his birthday.

They're lounging on the sand together, the remains of a picnic scattered around them. Richie was leaned up against one of the rocks, while Mike used his shoulder to snooze on. Eddie was practically fluorescent white with the amount of sunscreen he'd lathered onto his body, and Ben kept calling him the Kaspbrak Beacon.

"What's wrong?" Beverly asked, her chin resting on her knees.

"It's about my birthday." he says.

"The Rabbi is cutting the rest of your dick off?" Richie asks, and cackles at his own joke.

Stanley shoots him a look that could curdle milk. "You're so funny Richie."

"I know."

Stanley flips him off and continues. "It's about the gathering."

For some reason, they'd all refused to call his birthday celebration a ‘party’. Perhaps it was because it felt too childish, that 16-year-olds shouldn't be having parties, that it was somehow beneath them all. Even so, they had bought Stan presents, organized decoration buying, and helped his mother order a cake with his favourite birds piped on.

"What's h-happened?" Bill asks, long legs stretched out. Richie can't help but stare at how tanned Bill is.

"My Dad is making me invite the other kids from shul." Stanley says, and rolled his eyes. "I don't even like them, but he says it's bad taste if they don't come."

Beverly hisses. "Outsiders."

"We've met some of them before." Ben points out. "I liked the girl with the frizzy hair."

"They all have frizzy hair." Stanley points out, and then flops onto his back, staring up at the sky. "God. Why can't it just be us?"

"The great Rabbi has spoken." Richie says in a solemn voice. "All hail Uris, planner of his son's birthday."

"Ugh." Stanley says. "They don't even like me."

"How could anyone not like you?" Mike says sleepily. Richie didn't even know he was awake.

"Because they're all," Stanley waves a hand. "Religious. And I'm not. And they're all friends with each other."

"Well they're going to feel weird too." Bill muses. "Think about it. They turn up to a birthday, and we're all there being cliquey and saying inside jokes. They'll feel so left out."

"Don’t call us a clique." Richie says. "We're not a group of teenage girls."

"What's wrong with being a group of teenage girls?" Beverly asks icily.

Richie held up his hands. "Nothing! Absolutely nothing at all, I'd love to be a teenage girl."

"I thought so." Beverly says smugly and turns back to Stanley. "It'll be okay Stan. Don't worry."

"That's easy for you to say." he says and stares up mournfully at the sky. "It's going to be hell."

"Positive thoughts." Richie says, and patted Stanley's leg. "Pos-i-tive thoughts."

"Beep Beep." Stan says, and covered his face with his hands.

*

Stanley's gathering was held in the synagogue’s event space. Richie had spent the morning balancing on a ladder stringing up paper decorations and tacking up a banner that read _‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY STANLEY’_. Bill and Eddie spent their morning telling Richie that he was doing it wrong, and that he couldn’t hang a poster to save his own life.

“Why don’t you just do it then?” Richie asks, as Bill craned his neck to look at Richie’s apparently shoddy handiwork. Eddie had lone gone to help Ben with a dodgy lightbulb, which Richie wished he were there to watch.

“You’re taller than me.” Bill pointed out. “You can get in those hard to reach places.”

Richie jumps down off the ladder and narrowly avoids squashing Bill flat.

“Don’t i-injure yourself.” Bill says.

“I’m not going to.” Richie rolls his eyes and admires the decorations. “I think they look fine.”

“I don’t want Stanley to get anxious if it’s not done right.” Bill says, still looking up.

Richie studied him for a second. “You really care about his birthday, huh?”

“It’s going to be the last time we ever do anything like this.” Bill says. “Next year, we’ll just have house parties instead of birthday parties, and then the year after that, we’ll be at university. This is our last chance.”

“Well I promise to hold a birthday party next year.” Richie tells him. “With balloons and cake and jelly. You can be guest of honour.”

Bill laughs. “Thanks.”

“I’ll make you a crown and everything.” Richie says. “And I’m not planning on going to university anyway, so I’ll just follow you around the place.”

“You’re seriously not going to university?” Bill asks.

Richie shrugs. “I can’t afford it and I don’t want to go.”

“My parents have a whole list of places they want me to apply for.” Bill says. “They’ve probably got one for Georgie too.”

“He’d look very cute in a graduation cap and gown.” Richie says, “But seriously? They’re not letting you choose where you want to go?”

“Nope.” Bill looked down at his feet. “At least I could pick my major.”

“Creative Writing?”

He laughs bitterly. “English Literature. They don’t think creative writing counts as a proper degree.”

“Fuck your parents.” Richie says. “Your writing is brilliant.”

“It’s weird.” Bill says. “I like, horror and stuff. Nobody wants to read that.”

“Your parents should still let you decide your own future though.”

“You know what they’re like.” Bill says. “They think what they do is best for me.”

Richie pulls a sympathetic face. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Bill says and turns to him. “If you’re not going to uni then you can come with me instead.”

Richie puts on a posh British voice, “Students must bring kitchen utensils, bathroom supplies, and one annoying childhood friend.”

Bill laughs. “I’ll fit you in my suitcase. You can sleep on my bedroom floor.”

“Gross, I’m not sleeping on your floor.” Richie says. “I’ll sleep in your bed. We can top and tail.”

“That means I have to face your feet, and I know how badly they stink.” Bill wrinkles his nose. “We’ll have to spoon.”

“I’m big spoon.” Richie says at once.

“You’re a big idiot.” Bill says. “And you’re the little spoon at best.”

“All the women say I’m very good in bed.”

Bill snorts. “What women?”

“I’ve slept with tons of people!”

“Name one person!” Bill says and laughs when Richie can’t think of anyone. “You’re such a liar Trashmouth”.

“Fuck you.” Richie says good naturedly.

Bill grins and nudges him. “Thanks Richie.”

“I didn’t even do anything.” Richie says.

“I know. It’s just good to talk.” Bill turns away from him. “I’m going to go see if Mike needs any help.”

“Cool.” Richie says. “I’ll go annoy Eddie until he screams at me.”

“Good plan.” Bill says and squeezes Richie’s arm.

Richie ignored the weird feeling in his stomach and wrote it off as vertigo from being up on the ladder.

*

"I have alcohol." Beverly had said, once Stan's parents wished their goodbyes by ruffling his hair and remarking how grown he looked.

Richie liked Stanley’s parents, they thought he was funny and always bought him excellent Chanukah presents.

"We're underage." Eddie points out.

"No shit." Beverly pulls two bottles of vodka from her tote bag. "But it's Stanley's birthday and he deserves to celebrate in style."

"How did you even get this?" Stanley asks, taking the bottles from her and reading the labels. "Bev this is 40% proof."

Beverly tapped the side of her nose. "I have friends in high places."

"My cousin." Ben explains. "He's 23, and thinks I need to let loose."

"I need to meet your cousin." Richie says, impressed. "Does he know any good weed dealers?"

Ben opened his mouth to speak before the door was pushed open and a group of people shuffled into the room. Richie recognised the group of teenagers from the Jewish school when Stan had dragged him to Saturday services.

"Hey Stanley." One of the boys says. He's what Richie's grandma would call handsome, tall, with blonde hair gelled up into spikes. "Happy Birthday."

"You too Eli." Stanley says and Beverly steps on his foot. "Ow! I meant thank you."

"My mom made me bring cakes." A girl with a giant Tupperware box says, lifting it above her head like a sacrifice. "Where should I put them?"

Bill stepped forward smoothly. "We're putting all the food on this table here." He says, gesturing with his hand. "Mike's just setting up the sound system."

"I am?" Mike said, and Bill looks at him. "Oh yeah. I was."

"I'm in charge of drinks." Beverly says, "We have juice, soda, kosher wine that Stanley stole from the synagogue cupboard..."

The blonde boy, Eli, had reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. Several of the others did the same, magicking up bottles of gin and vodka.

"What about something stronger?" Eli says with a grin.

"I like your style." Bill says, and the two look at one another.

Richie felt uncomfortable, but he didn’t know why.

*

About half an hour later though, Richie was comfortably drunk. The group had ended up on the floor, making their way through mountains of cake and copious amounts of alcohol. Stanley had his head in Mike’s lap, his hair being played with, and looked extremely pleased by the turn of events.

"Truth or Dare?" Cake girl is asking Bev, who pretends to consider for a moment.

"Dare." She announces with a grin, which isn't much of a surprise because she always picked dares. "What have you got for me?"

"I dare you to kiss the boy you like the most in the room." Cake Girl says, and the group oohs in a dramatic fashion.

"That's not fair." Ben says. "Bill isn't even here."

Richie looked around and realised for the first time that Bill is, in fact, missing. ‘ _He must be finding more alcohol’,_ he thinks, ‘ _or snacks’_. Eli doesn't seem to be here either. Good. Richie didn’t like him, for various reasons.

"Well maybe Bill isn't the boy I like most." Beverly says, and Ben turns a funny colour. "The boy I like most is,"

Beverly leans towards Ben, and then lurches at the final second, dipping her head to press a kiss to Stanley's forehead. "The birthday boy, Stanley himself."

"Gross." Stanley says, but he's smiling.

"You love it." Beverly says, and looks at Richie. "Your turn."

Richie downed his red plastic cup of vodka and Fanta, that turned out to have more alcohol than soda. "Dare."

"You can't have dare twice." Mike says. "Chose truth."

"I want to do a dare though!" Richie protested.

"We can dare him to shut up for the rest of the night." Eddie piped up and Richie elbows him. "Hey!"

"Well if you're going to dare me that then I'll pick truth." He says and folds his arms. "Truth."

One of the boys leaned forward, studying Richie. "Who’s your favourite, out of your friend group?"

The room went quiet and Richie knew the answer instantly. Bill. It's always going to be Bill. No matter what happens, they were brothers for life.

"Can I not just pick my least favourite?" Richie says instead, switched into _funny man_ persona. "Because then it's Eddie, hands down, no questions-"

"Oi!" Eddie exclaims, and pushes him, and Richie cackles, shoving him back.

"Can you believe I have to deal with these idiots?" Beverly asks Cake Girl.

"I pity you." Cake Girl replies.

Richie managed to avoid Eddie's final blow and realized, quite suddenly, that his bladder was about to explode.

"I need to piss." He announces to the group, clambering upright and almost tripping over his own feet.

Eddie grabbed hold of him by the leg, looking up with a worried expression. "Are you okay?" He asks.

Richie waved a hand. "I'm fine Eddie Spaghetti." He slurs, and pats Eddie on the head, harder than he meant to. "Just... need a pee."

He staggered into the corridor, almost laughing at his own drunkenness. He had to grab hold of the wall a couple of times to steady himself, fingers scraping across the brickwork as he edged his way towards the men's toilets.

There was children’s artwork across the walls, Torah stories retold in shaky drawings. There were photographs too, and Richie managed to pick out Stanley in a few of them, vision going double with the effort to concentrate.

The door to the toilets was closed firmly, and Richie rested his head against the cool wood for a moment. It was good against his hot skin, and had sobered him a little bit, until his bladder’s needs had won out and he threw the door open.

For a moment, he thought that Bill and Eli were fighting, pressed up against the wall. He blinked a couple of times, already surging forward to protect Bill, when he realized what they're doing.

Bill was kissing Eli desperately, hands clutched in the front of his shirt, crumpling the material. Eli's own hand was slid up Bill's top, touching the skin that Richie knew was tanned a dark brown.

Richie made a noise that he can't control, half disgust and half surprise. The two boys jumped apart, and Bill turned crimson at the sight of him. Richie felt the alcohol drain from his body as he stared at them both in return.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He blurts out.

"Why do you care?" Eli says, and Bill touches him lightly on the arm.

"It's okay, he understands." He says softly, and the tenderness in his voice just makes Richie angry.

"What do you mean I understand?" He asks, and then it clicks. "I'm not gay!"

"Richie-" Bill starts, still quiet, and Richie takes a step back.

"No." He says. “You’ve got it wrong.”

“It’s okay-“

“No, it’s not okay.” Richie takes another step back, feeling the cold door against his skin. “I’m not like _you_.”

The words hung in the air. Richie wondered if Bill can tell he’s lying.

“I think your friend has made himself clear.” Eli says icily.

“Good.” Richie says, upset for reasons he doesn’t understand. “We’re all on the same page.”

“I also think he should leave.” Eli adds, and Richie rolls his eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’m going.” He says. “For good.”

Richie stormed out of the bathroom, ignoring the heartbroken look on Bill’s face, and squashed his feelings down into the pit of his stomach until he could pretend that they were never there at all.

*

In the bathroom of Cade’s mansion, Richie is staring down at his shoes. They’re Converses, his first big purchase after coming to LA, now scuffed and peeling apart at the seams. They look how Richie feels.

God, he hates this. The _wanting_.

He knows that Bill doesn’t like him back. Bill likes men who have their shit together, who are cool and confident, who have stable careers. Men he can bring home to his parents. The Denbrough’s still hate Richie, they’ve never forgiven him for the vase incident. He can’t even imagine the look on Sharon’s face if Bill announced they were dating.

Richie doesn’t even know if he likes men 100%. Bill might just be an outlier, he’s never liked anyone else of the same sex. Truth be told, he’s never fallen in love with anyone of the opposite sex either, it’s all just been hook-ups and relationships where he didn’t put enough effort in.

Maybe he’s doomed to like Bill for the rest of his life, a modern-day Prometheus getting his guts ripped out by eagles every day.

The sad thing is, the birthday incident isn’t even the worse thing that Richie did. They still spoke afterwards, strained conversations that were painful not just for them, but the people around them too.

The rest of the Losers club could tell that something had happened, but they had the good sense not to ask what. Richie doesn’t even know what he would have told them if they had asked. “ _I walked in on Bill kissing a boy and got angry that it wasn’t me, but I didn’t know how to comprehend that, so I was a dick instead_ ”.

Richie rubs his eyes and sighs. It’s too early to emerge back onto the rooftop, everyone will still be gathered around, ready to laugh at him. He can’t stand to see Bill’s face right now, because he’ll end up doing something stupid, like punching or snogging him. Either option is terrible.

Richie reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. There’s a missed call from his agent, but he ignores it, opening his contacts and finding Bev’s number.

_To: BEV_

_bill is fucking here im going to jump off the roof_

_From: RICHIE_

He fiddles with the phone whilst he waits for Bev’s reply. The phone is new, the screen cracked already, but when he scrolls to the start of his photo gallery, he finds all the photos he took with the Losers Club a million years ago.

Well, he’s somehow cropped Bill’s face out of them. Each photo has suffered from dodgy editing, with Bill missing from each one, only an ear or an arm to show where he once was. Richie clicks on a random photo and reverts the changes, and physically gulps when he sees the photo in its entirety.

Bill and Richie in their last year of high school. They’ve both grown like weeds, gangly and uncoordinated, wearing shirts with slogans that are cringy to look at now. Richie has long hair, that he automatically flinches when he sees because he looks so disgusting, but Bill is handsome as always.

They’ve got their arms around each other. Richie can still remember the feeling of Bill’s arm snaked around his waist, the heat that came from him, making Richie feel warm and comforted. Bill was the person you went to when you were sad, the person you curled up next to at sleepovers.

Richie’s thumb hovers over deleting the photo. Just as he’s about to press down, a text message flashes above the screen.

_To: RICHIE_

_I remember him telling me_ _☹ Sorry, I tried to tell you in time, but you hung up on me. Everything okay?_

_From: BEV_

Richie can’t be bothered to type out everything that went on, plus finding the appropriate emojis to include, so he calls her instead.

Bev picks up on the first ring. “Richie? Hello? Do I have to bail you out of jail?”

“Not this time.” Richie says, and Bev makes a sympathetic noise.

“You sound like shit.”

“Thanks babe.”

“No problem boo.” Bev says, and lowers her voice. “Did you speak to him?”

“He told me I was only friends with you because I wanted to fuck you.” Richie says, and Bev squawks.

“What?! He said that? What a dick!”

“He was angry.” Richie says, and doesn’t know why he’s making excuses for Bill. “I- We had a fight. I stormed off. People saw.”

“I’m sorry Rich.” Bev says. “I wish you’d listened to me.”

“Story of my fucking life.”

“Are you going home?” She asks.

“I am currently hiding in the men’s bathroom.” Richie informs her. “So, uh, no.”

Bev makes another comforting noise. “I wish I was there to help.”

Richie knows that Bev still talks to Bill, all the Losers do. Ben tries to invite Bill and Richie over every Christmas to reconcile, and Richie always tells Ben to fuck off in much stronger terms. He’s sure Bill says the same sort of things.

“I wish I’d never come.” Richie says to Bev.

“Maybe I should come up and stay for a couple of days.” Bev says, and Richie blinks. “After the show’s ended. I can get a flight over and come see you. It’s been months.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Richie tells her. “You’re so busy right now – I don’t want to drag you away.”

“You’re my best friend Richie.” Bev says. “I care about you.”

“I care about you too.” Richie says quietly, just as the door to the men’s bathroom is thrown open.

“Richie!” Cade yells. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Who the fuck is that?” Bev asks, and Richie pulls the phone away from his ear.

“I’m taking a shit, what do you want Cade?”

“Come out and play!” Cade says, knocking on the stall door. “We’ve all forgotten about your little spat with your friend, Bob? Bryan? Basil? The author.”

“Bill.” Richie corrects.

“That’s the one.” Cade says. “Come on Rich. I’ve just pulled out the good vodka.”

“You shouldn’t keep drinking.” Bev says, her voice tinny over the speakers.

“Who’s that?” Cade asks, intrigued. “Are you having phone sex in here?”

“It’s my friend.” Richie says annoyed, and continues to Bev, “Listen, I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Richie, be safe.”

“I will be.” Richie lies, and hangs up.

He stands up from the toilet, legs creaking, and unlocks the door. Cade is standing there, still with his two pairs of sunglasses, grinning.

“Tell me more about the girl on the phone.”

“She doesn’t matter.” Richie says, barging past to wash his hands. “Just a friend.”

“You fucked her?”

“No.” Richie says, scrubbing furiously at his skin. “I don’t fuck anything that moves. Unlike you.”

Cade laughs and slaps Richie on the back. “See, this is why I asked you to come! You’re funny, unlike those boring assholes out there.”

“Is Bill still there?” Richie asks.

“He disappeared.” Cade says with a shrug. “I only invited him because his book is a bestseller.”

Richie knows all about Bill’s writing career. He’s read the bestseller in question, a 100-thousand-word novel detailing the life of a gay protagonist during the 1980’s. Richie read it over the course of a week, in between takes of his new show, and in the bathtub. It’s good. Annoyingly good.

“What was that you said about good vodka?” Richie asks, and Cade smirks.

“Man after my own heart.” He says. “Come on.”

...

The vodka is not good. It tastes like nail polish, not that Richie would know what that _tastes_ of, but he figures the vodka comes damn close. It makes his eyes water every time he takes a shot, leaning over the rooftop bar with Cade laughing beside him.

He doesn’t know where Bill is, but truth be told, his eyesight is so blurry that he wouldn’t be able to recognise the other man if he was standing beside him. Some small part of Richie can’t wait to go home and take out his contacts, but mostly he just wants to keep drinking.

“So, I’m in her bedroom, right?” Cade is saying, voice loud in Richie’s ear. “And she pulls out a fucking strap on!”

Richie laughs, but he doesn’t know what the joke is about. “That’s crazy.”

“I know, right?!” Cade’s eyes are wide.

“Did she use it on you?”

Cade grins in reply. “What do you think?”

He motions for the bartender to pour another round of shots. Richie wishes they were drinking with mixers but there’s no point arguing with Cade. When Cade has his mind set on something, there’s no chance of stopping him.

“Have you ever had an orgy?” Cade asks.

Richie snorts vodka from his nose and gasps for air. It burns his nose hair something fierce, like the time that he and Bill were messing around with lighters and accidentally set Richie’s leg hair on fire.

Cade laughs at him. “We’ll organise something. I know a woman, she runs these insane parties. Masks and shit. No boundaries.”

“Great.” Richie says half-heartedly.

“She invites famous people too.” Cade says. “The last time I went, there were basketball players. Massive cocks.”

“You were looking?”

“I don’t discriminate.” Cade says. “Men, women. If they’re up for it.”

“Huh.” Richie says.

Cade licks vodka from his fingers. “That girl you were talking to earlier. She was fucking hot.”

“I guess.” Richie shrugs. “Typical LA girl.”

“Spending Daddy’s money but wants you to pay her rent?” Cade asks.

Richie’s dated quite a few of those girls. He doesn’t know if Alice is one of them.

“Did she give you her number?” Cade asks.

“No.”

“Do you want me to get it for you?”

Richie shrugs. “I’m not that into her.”

“She’d put out.”

“I still don’t care.” Richie picks up the shot glass, inspects it. “I’m not like that anymore.”

Cade laughs. “Is that why you and Book Boy fought? Over girls?”

“Something like that.” Richie says, and slings back his shot, the alcohol burning the back of his throat.

...

It’s the October school holidays and Richie has about twenty essays to write, and not enough time to do them. It’s not like he’s been procrastinating, he’s just been busy, hanging out with the rest of the Losers and working as an intern at his Dad’s office.

“I never want an office job.” Richie says on the car ride home. He smells of stale coffee and fax print outs. “It’s so boring.”

His Dad laughs at him. “What are you going to do instead then?”

“I don’t know.” Richie leans his forehead against the car window. “I just.... How can you stand to be inside all day? Staring at a screen?”

“I like the pay check.” His father answers, a moment of truth. “And I like the people I work with. My client base. They like me, respect me.”

“Don’t you ever get tired?”

“I think any job you do, you’ll have days when you’re tired, and you just want to quit. Even, I don’t know, David Letterman, must have days where he doesn’t want to work, and just wants to stay at home and read.”

“I’m going to find a job that I love.” Richie says, “That I’ll never get sick of.”

His Dad smiles across at him. “I hope you do.”

When they get back to the house, there’s a message on the answering machine. Richie’s mother is working late, so Richie fixes himself a snack of cheese in a can and hops up onto the kitchen counter to listen to it.

“Please leave a message after the tone – _screech!_ ”

“Hi Richie, it’s Bill” he pauses, “If Richie’s mom is listening, don’t worry, it’s nothing bad, I just wanted to know if I could come around and sleep over tomorrow night? My parents are hosting a fancy party and, honestly, I don’t want to be there. Georgie’s staying at my aunt’s house, but they didn’t invite me. We can work on your English essays together because I know you haven’t done them yet. If not, that’s fine, just call me back when you get this. Okay, bye!”

Richie squirts liquid cheese into his mouth and swallows it without chewing. He has nothing going on tomorrow night, apart from indefinite plans to smoke weed and cry over maths homework. Bill is good with explaining things and doesn’t make Richie feel stupid when he can’t write what he thinks.

Richie throws his head back and yells. “ _Dad!_ ”

Silence.

“ _Dad!_ ” Richie yells again. “ _Wentworth!_ ”

His father appears on the doorway, rubbing at his ear. “This is a two-storey house Richard, you don’t need to scream.”

“You weren’t replying.” Richie protests. “Can Bill sleep over tomorrow?”

“Where is this coming from?”

“He left a message on the answering machine. So, can he?”

“Don’t you have school work to do?” His Dad asks.

“That’s why he’s coming over, to help me.” Richie tilts his head to one side. “Come on, Dad, please? It’s not like we’ll have school the next day, and Bill is always polite. Plus, he has door keys to our house.”

“Ask your mother.” His Dad says and Richie groans. “But! I’m giving you permission.”

“Yes!” Richie fist pumps. “Thanks.”

His father shakes his head, smiling. “Don’t celebrate until you’ve asked your mother, okay?”

“Fine.” Richie says, and celebrates with more squirty cheese.

*

Richie is colouring in his nails with highlighter pen when someone knocks on the door downstairs. He cocks his head to one side, because Bill normally lets himself into the house, but then figures that Bill probably forgot his keys.

He bounds down the stairs, two at a time, and almost trips on the bottom step, which his mother still needs to hammer back into place. His parents are both out, his mom is working late, and his dad is out at a company dinner. They’re all alone.

Richie opens the front door, and then blinks. It’s a girl from his English class that he can’t remember the name of, tall with tanned skin, and long dark hair that Bev is jealous of.

“Uh,” Richie says. “I think you have the wrong house?”

The girl smiles at him. “I’m in the right place. Richie Tozier, yeah?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” Richie says. “And you’re here because...?”

The girl looks around, and then leans in. “You sell weed, right?”

Richie could almost laugh. He thought she was here to rob him. “Yeah, I do.”

“Can I buy some? I know it’s late notice, but my dad found my stash.” She rolls her eyes, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “So bogus.”

Richie looks about and realises anyone can see him dealing on the front step. “Do you want to come inside?”

“Sure.”

Richie moves aside, and she steps over the threshold, kicking off her white sliders. Obviously planning to stay then.

“I keep it in my room.” Richie says, “Follow me. Mind the step.”

“Marcia Fadden told me you have the best weed around. I didn’t think you’d sell to her.” The girl says as she trails after him.

“Why wouldn’t I sell to her?” Richie asks as they reach the landing.

“Because she’s a bitch.” The girl states, matter of fact, and Richie laughs.

“I charge her and her friends double.”

“Good. Greta’s a cunt.”

Richie holds open his bedroom door for the girl to go inside. “Welcome to where the magic happens.”

The girl looks around the place, admiring Richie’s posters and his unmade bed. “Your room stinks. Your parents don’t care that you smoke?”

“They’re cool. My mom used to smoke when she was a teenager.”

“God, I wish my parents were like that.” She flops down onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. “My dad is such a dick.”

“I think most parents are like that.”

Richie reaches into his secret cupboard and pulls out a Ziploc bag of weed. He knows it’s a stupid place to hide it, but he doesn’t know where else to keep it.

“How much do you want?”

“A gram?” The girl asks.

“Cool.”

Richie sits cross legged on the carpet and measures out the amount for her. He can feel the girl’s eyes on him, and gives her a little bit extra, so she’ll stop looking at him in such a weird way.

“Here.” He lifts the baggie to show her. “A gram.”

“You’re a life saver.” The girl says, and then pauses. “I need to tell you something.”

“What?” Richie sets about putting everything away. His nails look pretty.

“I don’t have any cash on me.”

“I don’t take credit card.” Richie says without looking up. “I don’t do rain checks either, unless you’re a frequent customer.”

“I can pay in other ways.”

Richie does look up at that. The girl is sitting upright on his bed, staring at him. She carefully pulls down the strap of her shirt, exposing her tanned shoulder.

“What?” Richie says, because he’s a dumb teenage boy.

“I can give you,” She leans forward, and Richie can see down her shirt, “Something _much_ better.”

Richie makes a noise that he didn’t know he could physically make. “You- You want to? Seriously? For weed?!”

A slow grin spreads across the girl’s face, and she reaches out one hand. Richie takes it and lets her pull him up onto the bed. She runs her hand through Richie’s hair, and then slips off his glasses, setting them aside.

“Let me give you something money can’t buy.” She whispers and leans in to kiss him.

And then Richie’s making out with this girl, and he wishes he could remember her _fucking_ name, because when she moans his own name in his ear, it sounds like heaven.

Richie’s facing towards the door, sitting up against the headboard as she grinds down against his lap, gasping out when he thrusts his hips up to meet hers. He pulls her closer by the waist, kissing her mouth which tastes of strawberry bubble gum.

“God.” She whines, and Richie grins.

“You figured out my identity.” He says, and she hits him playfully in the shoulder.

“Fuck you Tozier.” She says.

“If you ask nicely.” He teases, sliding his hands up her thighs, her skin hot to the touch.

“You want me to beg for you?” She asks, and Richie moves his mouth to her neck. “Oh my god.”

“Worth it for weed?” Richie asks, and she rubs herself against him, causing sparks behind Richie’s eyes. “Fuck _me_.”

“I’m trying.” She says playfully and leans in to whisper in his ear. “I want you to pin me down and-“

The bedroom door swings open.

Richie freezes, instantly lifting his hands away from her. The girl cranes her neck to see the intruder, and they both blink at the sight of Bill in the doorway. He’s holding his overnight bag in one hand, and Richie’s spare front door key in the other. _Oh._

“I invited you over.” Richie says stupidly.

Bill doesn’t say anything, only stares. The girl swings herself off Richie, pulling up her shirt.

“Hey Bill.” She says awkwardly

Bill gives a strained smile. “Hey Brielle” He says. “I was just leaving.”

“Wait,” Richie climbs off the bed, “Wait Bill, man, I’m sorry, I forgot-“

“I figured.” Bill says, backing away from the two of them.

“She, I- She wanted weed.” Richie says, and Bill shakes his head.

“Of course she did.”

“Uh, I’m going to go.” Brielle clambers off the bed, picking up the baggie of weed off the floor. She shoves it into her tiny shorts pocket and nods at them both. “I’ll pay you back later Richie.”

“Wait-“ Richie says again, but she’s slipped past Bill. He can hear her rushing down the stairs.

“So, this is what it’s come to, huh?” Bill asks. “You fuck girls in exchange for weed?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“So what was it like then?” Bill asks and drops his bag on the floor. “Richie, I came over to fucking help you study, because god knows you need it-“

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Richie demands.

“That you’re going to spend the rest of your life being a drug dealer if you don’t focus!”

“You really think I’m that stupid?!” Richie asks, hurt. “It’s not my fault I have ADHD!”

“I never said it was, but you don’t fucking help yourself!” Bill says. “You’re wasting your life!”

“Have you given this lecture to the rest of the losers?” Richie asks. “Because none of the others have concrete plans, do they?”

“Well at least they’re not making girls fuck them for weed-“

Richie launches himself at Bill, and the two end up on the floor, rolling around and screaming intelligible noises at one another. Richie can just feel the heat of Bill’s body, the scrape of Bill’s nails against his skin as he pins Bill to the carpet.

“Is this what you’re like now?” Bill spits, “Just a washed out stoned in his parents’ bedroom-“

“At least mommy and daddy aren’t controlling my entire life-“

“Well at least my mommy is actually around.” Bill says, and the gleam in his eye tells Richie that he knows he’s struck a nerve.

Richie draws his fist back, and Bill stares him down.

“You gonna hit me?” He says, “Do it.”

“I will, don’t fucking make me.” Richie says through gritted teeth.

“Pussy.” Bill says, “You can’t even hit me, you’re not even a man-“

Richie brings his fist down on Bill’s nose. It crunches underneath his knuckles and Bill gives a gasp, and a horrified feeling shoots through Richie at the idea of causing Bill pain. Bill must sense a change in the dynamic and manages to flip them both over, so that he’s on top.

Blood is dribbling down his nose, and he wipes it with the back of his arm. The blood sticks to the hair, leaving a sticky trail.

“Get off me.” Richie says.

“No.”

“Get off me!” Richie repeats, bucking up his hips. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Why, are you scared?” Bill asks, “Scared of what I’m going to do? Because you can deal it but you can’t take it, huh, you’re too worried that Bill is going to break your little wittle nose-“

Richie tries to grab at Bill, but he pins Richie’s hands down, leaning over him.

“I hate you.” Richie says. “You stuck up, pathetic, stuttering piece of _shit_.”

“I’m not the one selling weed to pay my parents rent.”

“My parents love me.” Richie spits. “Everybody knows that yours don’t, all of us do, we all talk about it, that poor Bill isn’t loved by anyone.”

Bill slaps him hard across the face. Richie gasps with the pain of it and says the first thing that comes into his head.

“You fucking faggot.” He snarls, and Bill punches him so hard that Richie sees stars.

“You-“ Bill says, and Richie can hear the hurt in Bill’s voice, even as he floats from the pain. “ _Richie_.”

“Boys,” Richie slurs, “You like boys, you want to fuck boys-“

“Shut up.” Bill’s hands are around Richie’s neck, shaking him. “Shut the fuck up, you bastard, you fucking cunt-“

“Make me.” Richie wheezes.

Bill kisses him. Hard and messy, teeth clacking together, but a kiss all the same. Richie gasps out against Bill’s mouth, and Bill bites down on Richie’s bottom lip before pulling away.

The two stare at one another.

“Get off me.” Richie says in a small voice.

Bill climbs off Richie, and Richie crawls away from Bill, blood drooling from his nose. He’s scared suddenly, feeling tiny in the large room. He reaches up and touches his stinging nose, and looks at the crimson blood.

“I hate you.” Bill says.

Richie touches his mouth. He can feel the imprint of Bill’s mouth.

“I hate you.” Bill repeats, and Richie looks up at him.

“You-“ He starts, but Bill has already stood up, picking up his overnight bag.

“I mean it, Richie.”

Richie swallows down the feelings bubbling in his stomach and sets his jaw. “Don’t ever come near me again.”

Bill looks at Richie and laughs. “Why would I ever want to?”

And with that, he leaves the room, and Richie’s life.

*

Richie is so drunk that he’s laying on the floor, trying not to throw up over himself. There is alcohol churning in his bloodstream, like its trying to force itself out of his eye sockets. When he opens his mouth, sick rises in his throat.

He’s lost his lobster shirt. He doesn’t know how, or where, but he’s somehow ended up in a purple linen number, buttons undone to expose his nipples. The fabric is scratchy against his skin, and he wants to strip it off.

“Jesus Christ.” He hears someone say, “That’s embarrassing.”

Richie waves one hand in the air, wiggling his fingers in the direction of the voice. His head is spinning like a funfair ride, and _do you think Bill remembers when they went on the Graviton together and held hands the entire time, and Bill smelt of candy floss and Richie couldn’t stop staring at him-_

“Is that Richie Tozier? Is he okay?”

_Does Bill remember sleepovers in Richie’s house, drinking hot chocolate at midnight, cuddled up together in front of the television, watching horror movies they shouldn’t be watching, falling asleep as the sunlight shined in?_

“Should I get someone?”

There was a time when Richie loved Bill, in every sense of the word, a childhood dream that they would grow old together, share a house, friends until the end. Richie craved that closeness so much that he destroyed it.

“What’s he saying?”

Richie tries to sit upright and feels the world spin. For a moment he’s lost in limbo, floating up amongst the stars with the imprint of Bill’s glare echoing around his skull.

Then he topples forward into the swimming pool.

 _‘If only I could remember how to swim’_ Richie thinks to himself, just before he sinks to the bottom.

*

Once upon a time, there were two boys, and they loved each other.

And then they fucked it up.

Because that’s what boys do.

*

Of course, it’s Bill that saves his fucking life.

They burst out of the water like breaching whales, and Richie gasps in the humid night air. His lungs are burning deep in his chest, aching like heart break. He makes a horrible noise like someone is trying to turn his throat inside out by hand.

“Idiot!” Bill says, gripping Richie so tight that he’ll have bruises by the morning, “What is wrong with you?”

“I-” Richie starts, and Bill shakes him.

“I taught you how to swim!” He says furiously. “I know you can do it!”

Like Richie doesn’t remember when Bill took him down to the barrens and patiently held Richie in the water as he paddled for his life, explaining how to butterfly crawl and backstroke.

Bill starts dragging him over to the shallow end, so they’ll stop treading water. Richie keeps taking grateful hiccups of air every so often, suddenly grateful for something he’s always taken for granted. He knows that everyone is watching them, but he finds he doesn’t care.

“You look like shit.” Bill says, as Richie’s feet touch the bottom of the pool.

“I know.” Richie can’t figure out why his eyesight is so blurry. He reaches up and prods himself in the eyeball. “Ah, fuck.”

“What?” Bill snaps.

“My glasses.” Richie says, “They’re still in the pool.”

“I’ll go get them.” Bill says, preparing to dive.

“You don’t have to.” Richie tells him.

Bill looks at him. “Yes, I do.”

He swims off into the distance, and Richie squints his eyes to watch him. Bill dives from front crawl, and Richie wishes he could duck his head under the water to watch his movements. Instead he pushes himself to the edge of the pool, leaning against the side.

Richie closes his eyes. He can hear the slopping sounds of the water hitting the drain, and the whispers of the people above. He’s so tired suddenly, he just wants to lay down somewhere and fall asleep. Curl up under the stars and dream.

“Hey.”

Richie doesn’t open his eyes.

“Don’t go to sleep on me Tozier.” Bill says, “Don’t drown on me again.”

“I wasn’t trying to drown.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Bill reaches out and brushes a wet curl from Richie’s face, who opens his eyes to find the other staring at him. Bill goes to drop his hand, but Richie catches it, squeezing the skin.

“Hey.” Richie says, and then stops himself.

“Hey.” Bill replies, quiet.

Richie leans in and catches Bill’s mouth with his own. Sweet, gentle, different from the last time.

Bill’s hands find their way to Richie’s neck, and for a moment, Richie thinks he’s going to strangle him. Then Bill kisses him back, hungrily, and Richie takes hold of Bill by the waist, one hand sliding up his shirt where he’s always wanted to go.

Richie breaks apart for air, kiss dizzy. He’s got a stupid smile plastered on his face, and when he leans in again, his mouth bumps against Bill’s.

“Are you going to get a nosebleed like last time?” Bill asks. His voice is hoarse.

“Are you going to punch me again?” Richie asks.

Bill shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Good.”

Bill places Richie’s glasses back onto his face. Richie flutters his eyes closed for a moment, and when he opens them, Bill is studying him.

“You’d look terrible with contacts.” Bill says.

“I’ll always wear my glasses for you.” Richie replies.

They’re still in the pool. Richie can feel his fingers starting to wrinkle, and he pushes himself onto the ledge of the swimming pool. Someone has changed the playlist that Cade had on earlier, and soft music is pumping through the house.

“I’m not going home with you.” Bill says.

Richie lays a hand over his heart, fake gasping. “I don’t put out on the first date, anyways.”

“This isn’t a date.” Bill tells him.

“What is it then?”

“An unfortunate accident.” Bill sits up onto the ledge beside Richie. “Like your birth.”

“Oh _burn_.” Richie says, and bumps shoulders with him. “You’re the worst.”

“You’re the worst.” Bill replies and splashes his feet in the pool. “I still hate you.”

“I know.” Richie says. He would hate himself too.

“But,” Bill says, and gives Richie a small smile. “I think I could learn to like you.”

Richie tilts his head back towards the sky and admires the stars. “Yeah. I think I could learn to like you too.”

They settle back against one another wordlessly and look out towards the rising Californian skyline.

A new day is dawning.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you enjoyed!


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